


The Night is Young

by anak_ng_heneral



Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: KAPITAHHHHN, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tagalog dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anak_ng_heneral/pseuds/anak_ng_heneral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Better known as #KAPITAHHHHN on Tumblr. Kapag may nadinig po kayong pinag-uusapan na makasalanang Kapitan x Reader fic sa fandom, ito po yun. Yan po yung tunay  na title niya.</p><p>ALL ABOARD THE SEQUESTERED TRAIN TO HELL. CHOO-CHOO, MY FELLOW SINNERS.</p><p>Step 1: Pick your captain. O pwede din namang magsalitan sila kada basa mo, para maligaya ang lahat. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night is Young

It has been a slow day with the general out of camp. No skirmishes were fought today, no weapons fired, no bodies buried. The last several hours have been the closest anyone has gotten to peace for a long while, and today has been calm enough for you to remember there were things in the world other than war and death. Calm enough to remind you you are a young woman, human as they come, and with needs more sophisticated than mere survival.

The night is young as you pick your way through the quiet camp. Suppertime has long passed and people have retired to their personal spaces, but it is not yet time for sleep. You won’t be disturbing anyone just yet.

Though you very much doubt your visit could be considered a disturbance, no matter what time you paid it.

You knock softly on the door of the captains’ quarters. Your heart has started up a familiar thudding in your chest, like war drums, except tonight they do not herald death. “ _Adelante_ ,” calls the voice from within, and you push open the door. No, tonight your heart beats to remind you that you are very, very much alive.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed when you enter, polishing his sword. The other bed is made up and empty, the chair at the table between the beds is pulled out as though he had been sitting in it previously. _“Magandang gabi, Kapitan,”_ you greet, snapping a salute in the doorway. In contrast to your stiff posture, the captain is completely at ease; freshly bathed, white undershirt open at the collar, feet bare.

 _“Pasok, pasok,”_ he says just as formally, but already he is sheathing the sword and putting it aside. No sooner have you shut and latched the door than the captain is on his feet, his strong arms enveloping you in a crushing grip. You soften and return his embrace, taking in the smell of river water on his skin and the dampness of the hair at the back of his neck.

You steal one glance at the second bed across the room, the one that belongs to the other captain, and he shakes his head. _“Malayo ang dinayo nila ng Heneral,”_ he confirms with a smile—partly warm, partly mischievous, entirely handsome. _“Hindi malayong bukas na sila makakabalik.”_

And so this is how it will be tonight. Your gazes lock, the same hot glint mirrored in both of your eyes. Slowly, your lips meet. And then your teeth. And then your tongues. It is a greeting, a request and granting of assent, as ceremonial as the words you exchanged, but much, much more intimate.

Never releasing you, the captain maneuvers backward into the chair and you straddle him, his powerful thighs beneath your own. Your mouths meet in another kiss, this one deep and insistent. His fingers bury themselves in your hair, palm cupping the back of your head, tilting your face so he can better assault your mouth. You answer his challenge, tongue parrying and teeth attacking, and you think, this is the only battle you should be waging.

You stay like this only as long as you can be patient, for soon enough your own roaming hands have mapped out his back from north to south and your fingers are freeing the hem of his shirt from the waistband of his pants. You pull away slightly to run your hands over his hipbones, thumbs hooking into the grooves where the muscles frame his groin.

 _“Kapitan,”_ you whisper, a signal. An indication that you are ready for more.  

The circle of the captain’s arms around you has loosened, and he too seizes this chance to slip his hands under your shirt and hold your waist between them. You are a solid and sturdy woman, not a frail girl at all, and perhaps this is what makes you more wonderful, and what compels him to move his fingers upward. Skillfully, he unfastens the bindings around your breasts and takes the smooth globes into his hard, callused hands.

Things do not go slowly after that.

In a rush, you undo the buttons of your own shirt, a jumble of hands between you as he grasps at the soft flesh of your breasts, easing them together then apart then together again, rolling your nipples into peaks. When all the buttons are undone you shrug the shirt down your arms, the motion pushing your breasts upwards. The captain buries his face in your chest, retracing his fingers’ trail with his tongue.  His mouth latches first on one nipple and then the other, and you hold his head steady _, diyan, diyan ka lang,_ kapitan _, oh,_ and pull impulsively on his short, damp hair.

He rises, taking you with him, your legs wrapped around his waist. The sword and its cleaning implements are still scattered upon the bed and so the captain deposits you on the wooden table. The captain makes short work of his own shirt and you kick off your boots, but he wants the honor of unbuttoning your pants and sliding them down your legs—and you give it to him—until at last you are naked before him.

A body is a body, war has taught you; whether it is a temple for beauty or a tool for survival, it is capable of living and dying—and surrendering to pleasure—all the same. As a woman soldier in a country at war, perpetually sunburnt and lacking the resources for vanity, you have set aside all your tricks to being desirable, but right now, under the captain’s hungry, darkening gaze, you know you are no less desired.

He kisses you languidly once before he whispers, _“Sumandal ka.”_ And you obey, leaning back until you are sitting on the edge of the table and your arms are behind you, supporting your weight. The captain removes his belt and it falls to the floor in a hiss of leather; he takes himself out of his pants but does not remove them as he steps in between your legs. He drinks in the sight of you nude and spread open on his table, keeping one hand busy stroking his length while the other gently reaches for your center.

Your eyes are half-closed with need. _“Kapitan,”_ you urge him again. _“Kapitan, halika na.”_

He obliges, caressing your outer folds before he slides two fingers inside you, your own wetness letting him slip inside knuckle-deep. You open your eyes and watch him spear you with his fingers, matching his every stroke with a moan. The sight of his fingers disappearing inside you is endlessly sinful; the sensation they make as they curl and scissor within, hitting all the right places, is nothing but heavenly.

The captain follows your gaze. _“Basang-basa ka na,”_ he chuckles, although the sound is husky and laced with lust.

_“Handang-handa na ako para sa iyo.”_

You reach for him, like you usually do, and he shakes his head. _“Hindi na ako makapaghintay.”_ And the captain pulls you down from the table and turns you around, so you are bent over on your elbows on the tabletop and he is anchoring himself on your hips from behind. _“Ibuka mo ang mga binti mo,”_ says his voice from far away, and the idea that he can see so much of you from where he is standing is as erotic as if he were still whispering in your ear. Your legs are trembling as you open them, and he nudges them apart with his knees. _“Sige pa.”_

You can feel him settling in behind you. The captain’s hand cups your dripping center once and uses your own arousal to prime himself, and so he has no trouble at all entering you and sinking in to the hilt. _“Puñe—ah, kapitan,”_ you whimper. There’s always something about that first moment of being filled that feels so divine, so blessedly _good_. Your hands can find no purchase on the flat tabletop; your fists coil into themselves as you rock your hips backwards, wanting to take in more of him.   _“Kapitaaaan.”_

The captain has stopped speaking; it is all he can do to breathe. He makes no sounds save for slow inhales and exhales for the first few tentative motions. For your part, you are choking your cries off at the pass; they escape from your mouth instead as whimpers. You wish briefly for your trysts in the woods when the regiment travels between cities; lying on hastily-piled beds of leaves with your uniforms still on, both of you screaming your pleasure into the trees where not a soul can hear—

—and that is as far as you get, because the captain rolls his hips and begins to move. He starts at a quick pace, not overly fast but enough for you to reach your pleasure almost immediately. He likes to do this, send you tumbling off the edge from the very beginning so your climaxes are piled one on top of the other, and you cannot tell where one ends and another begins. In mere moments you are keening, body tightening around him, and the captain keeps his speed so you are falling over and over again, each time from a height higher than the last.

 _“Matagal tayong hindi nagsama,”_ he observes, finally slowing down. You are still pulsing around his length, which is thick and hard, yet also yielding and perfectly molded to your own warm, tight walls. _“Napakasikip mo na naman.“_

His words send a shudder of desire down your spine. You arch your back and turn your head to kiss him, opening your mouth to his plundering tongue so you are impossibly filled with him everywhere.

 _“Gusto kong kaharap kita,”_ you say when you break apart.

 _“Sakyan mo ako,”_ he invites, easing himself out of you and leaving you bereft and aching for a few seconds.

The captain takes the chair again, and he holds your hand as though you are a lady as he helps you climb atop him. Even in this intimate setting, he sits like an officer, erect and authoritative. He is all muscle and sinew, scars marking his chest and hair crawling up his stomach. Just looking at him makes your body’s thirst burn, and you hurry to quench it. You take him inside you all the way to the bottom and grind your hips into his in circles.

His eyes roll back into his head. _"Tangina, tenyente…”_

The captain is at your mercy—still sitting straight, but with his head thrown back and mouth open in a moan, completely dependent on your whim.

You grind into him again, every nerve of your core rubbing against every nerve of his, and you issue a single command. _"Gamitin mo ang pangalan ko.”_

He groans your name the instant as the words are out of your mouth and then it’s all he says, like a desperate prayer, like chanting encouragement, urging you on as you ride him. Your strong legs lift you all the way up to his tip, almost pulling him out of you completely, and then bring you down his entire length and breadth and warmth over and over again.

The captain’s eyebrows are furrowed in an expression of fierce pleasure on his face, but this is your pleasure too, and you are taking it _, dios mio, dios mio, puñeta, santissima_ , you are taking _him_.

Your thighs are burning from exertion but you are almost there, so near that you will not stop for anything. _“Kaunti na lang,”_ you almost sob—whether to yourself or to the captain, it made no difference. _“Bilisan mo pa,”_ he prompts. His hands are at your waist, supporting you _. “Ganyan,_ ganyan _, ganyan lang.”_

The captain reaches—masterfully, absolutely sure of his target—between your bodies for that hard, little nub of pleasure and _rubs_ —and you are gone.

The moment you topple over the peak, he grips your hip firmly and orders, _“Huwag kang gagalaw.”_ Then he thrusts upward into you at a pace so frantic your teeth rattle, his relentless fingers still caught between you. You dig your fingers into his shoulders—there will be marks there later—and bite into his neck to stifle your screams.

He waits for you to climax one last time, your most intense one yet, and then he is hauling you up onto the desk and thrusting into you erratically, and you know he is close. You hook your hands under your thighs and pull them apart as wide as they can go, so every plunge drives him in deeper and deeper still. His grip on your waist is bruisingly tight, and his voice is hoarse as he pants something that sounds like _putang ina, ang sarap mo, putang ina_ and the words are lost in a string of gasps and moans and curses, and your name, always your name.

He pulls out at the very, very last moment, spilling himself onto your belly, your thigh, the tabletop, a final growl wrested from deep within his throat as he comes. He sags onto you, the table creaking under his added weight. Both your breaths are labored, your heartbeats seem to be racing with each other. You wrap your arms around one another, feeling so lightheaded that you forget where you are and for the briefest moment, you are nothing but sated and content.

It feels like an eternity before you shift and break the spell. The captain nuzzles your neck, lips vibrating against your skin as he speaks. _“Magpahinga ka muna.”_ He catches your earlobe between his teeth, stoking the embers of desire that you thought had just burned out. _“Hindi pa tayo tapos.”_

Of course not. The night is young, after all.

And so are you. //

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to hell, where apparently the entrance ticket is the tempting glimpse of heaven between A/rchie A/lemania's unbuttoned white undershirt. Adelante, compatriota.


End file.
